


3rd Floor: Housewares, Women's Lingerie, Illegal Renditions

by Ambitious_Rubbish



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22073518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambitious_Rubbish/pseuds/Ambitious_Rubbish
Summary: It's a pleasant summer's evening in Rome.You're dressed to the nines.You have an invitation to a lavish party at the nearby foreign embassy.What do you do?Kidnap a foreign dignitary right out from under her security detail. Obviously.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/86845.html?thread=349129533#cmt349129533

_Russian Embassy_  
_Rome_  
_2042 Hours_

“Anything?”

“Negative, Warden. Satellite recon’s coming up empty. Nothing on the CCTV feeds, either. Looks like you’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

Valeria Cousland struggled to hold back a sigh. “Copy that, Templar. See you on the other side.”

She hated these kinds of operations. None of the novels ever made any mention of this part of the job. All the ones she’d read had focused on the more glamorous aspects of life in the covert services: traveling the world and traipsing through exotic locales. High-speed car chases and adrenaline-fueled gunfights. Murder and intrigue and danger around every corner.

But no one ever talked about the infiltrating state dinners, the making small talk with low-level diplomats, or the pretending to be interested in a junior delegate’s ruminations on foreign policy while overcooked and underseasoned chicken threatened to violate the integrity of one’s stomach.

Of course they never talked about any of that. Recruitment would drop to zero.

Speaking of, right now, Valeria rather wished she’d joined the Marines instead.

At least the Marines got to wear _practical_ outfits when they went to work.

Valeria fussed with her dress. It was a ghastly, horrid affair. Of course it was. It was _Parisian._ How the French ever managed to get anything done while wearing things this ridiculously ornate and exceedingly clumsy, was completely beyond her.

No wonder the bastards had lost at Agincourt.

Something was riding up in the back. She tried as casually as she could to tug it back to where it should be, but that only caused something to start riding up in the front.

Bother.

And as if that weren’t bad enough, there were the shoes – which were nothing short of _shocking._ Bloody Nora, how did anyone actually expect her to walk in these things? The heels felt half as tall as she was, and as she walked up to the front door of the embassy building, bouncing and swaying like a ship caught in a vicious gale, she was appalled at her own lack of grace and poise. She was like a three-legged gazelle, just waiting for the hunters to pounce upon her and put her out of her misery. They were out there right now, she would swear to it – staring at the gawky, ill-coordinated blonde, who, any second now, would be flipping arse over teakettle.

She was determined not to make such an obscene spectacle of herself. Determined to draw as little attention to herself as possible. And not just because people in her line of work tended to detest the spotlight. No, damn it all, if she could master putting a .308 Winchester into a target the size of a man’s head from five hundred meters away, she could certainly master something as simple as not falling on her face while walking in heels.

In truth, though, it was doubtful anyone would have noticed even if she had made an utter fool of herself. The guard who she handed her invitation to looked spectacularly bored, and he gave her faked credentials no more than a _very_ cursory inspection before he handed them back to her. In fact, he was practically yawning as he waved her through.

Unfortunately, the security on the other side of the door was a whole other story entirely. Valeria couldn’t even remember what black-tie diplomatic function she was ostensibly here to attend, but whatever it was, security (at least on the inside of the building) was airtight. She picked her way past more guards – alert ones this time – all in impeccable uniform, but all carrying what were unmistakably Kalashnikovs over their shoulders.

Most of the guests, having already arrived, mingled about the main floor and surrounding corridors, chatting amiably (or, at least politely faking it,) seemingly unperturbed by all the highly visible security. Valeria, however, was cringing. Inwardly. She was far too much of a professional to let something like that show, but certainly, in her own head, she was wincing as the mental count of the guards on just the ground floor alone climbed to over a dozen. It was true that in this brave new world, her country and the Russian Federation were no longer _technically_ enemies, but guards were guards. That was true the world over. And no matter who they worked for, security this tight always meant added… complications she could very much do without.

“Do you see her yet?”

She murmured her response softly, disguising it by gently brushing a bit of hair out of her face and behind her ear. “That’s a negative, Templar. Loghain’s got his cronies swarming over every inch of this place, but no Cauthrien. Are we certain she’s supposed to be here?”

She could hear the mild bitterness in his tone. But to his credit, he actually managed to conceal most of the disgust. “ ‘Certain?’ No. no, we’re not ‘certain.’ The information came from Langley.”

“Oh. Americans. Brilliant.”

“They say their source is credible, but… you know.”

“Quite.” Valeria did know. She’d been in this business for some time now – long enough to understand that there was more than a hint of truth to that adage about how intelligence data was either inaccurate, inadequate, or just an outright trap. And no offense intended to her counterparts across the pond, but the last few times she’d placed her faith in the Americans’ “credible” sources, events hadn’t turned out much to her liking. Honestly, she was starting to develop a bit of a cynical streak.

Heh.

Templar’s voice was in her ear once again, breaking into her musings. “Anyway, if there are guards everywhere, don’t you think you’d better hurry this along? Don’t want anyone swooping in on you while you’re standing around like a lump trying to locate the target. You know what I always say about swooping-”

“Yes, yes, I know. Now _hush_ and let me go do my job. If she’s here, I’ll find her.”


	2. Chapter 2

And she did. Find her, that is.

The only problem was that someone else had found her first.

It was just the three of them, relatively alone, in a rarely used ladies’ washroom on the embassy’s third floor, well away from the main gathering. And when Valeria walked in, her target was slumped, unconscious in a toilet stall. Her head rested unceremoniously against the wall, and a vicious bruise was already starting to form across her forehead.

The woman responsible for all the carnage was casually straightening her dress. She didn’t seem at all bothered by Valeria’s sudden entrance. Instead, she merely smiled politely, as if the two of them were old cronies.

… which they sort of were.

“Warden.”

“Nightingale.”

“The DGSE sneaking an operative into a Russian embassy? Tsk. Think of the scandal,” Valeria remarked with just a hint of a smirk crossing her lips.

“There won’t be a scandal if I’m not caught,” the Frenchwoman replied with remarkable nonchalance. “As far as anyone out there is concerned, I’m merely here as the assistant to Finance Minister Dulain.”

Valeria snickered. “You know nothing about finance.”

It was a comment that garnered a fleeting smile from the redhead. “Neither does the Finance Minister.”

“So. I assume you’re here for the same reason I am?”

“But of course. The trattoria on the corner makes a delectable radicchio, fennel, and olive panzanella.”

Valeria rolled her eyes. She had never known Nightingale to be overly bothered with professionalism and decorum in the field. Clearly, nothing had changed. “Could we be serious for a moment, Nightingale?”

“I’m perfectly serious. They use a Manchego that’s positively delightful.” Valeria shot her an irritated glare, and that was finally enough to sober the French agent. She cleared her throat and nodded at the insensate woman still slumped awkwardly in the toilet stall. “You no doubt mean our friend here.”

“I do. And I find it very interesting how blasé you seem. You know, given you’re about to help me kidnap an enemy intelligence operative.”

“Oh, Warden, please. ‘Kidnap’ is such a distasteful word.”

“But accurate.”

“… well, yes.” Nightingale replied with an easygoing shrug. “But I don’t think I should be blamed for trying to make our conversations a little less… banal.”

“And I think I’ve got plenty enough excitement in my life. So, where does that leave us?”

“Working out the details of our joint ‘kidnapping?’”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yes, well, let me just say that you should consider my assistance here a… well, a gift… of sorts. The director’s attempt to make amends for that incident in Berlin.”

Just the mention of the name “Berlin” was enough to get Valeria’s hackles up. She did her best to not let it show, but her mouth insisted on twisting into something of a frown. She sighed. Then, she sighed again when she noticed that Nightingale was, if not outright grinning, at least making no effort to hide the fact she was smirking. “You left me in a ditch.”

“You had food and water.”

“You took all my ammunition.”

“With that broken arm, you wouldn’t have been able to fire the rifle very effectively, anyway. Besides, you made it to your extraction point just fine, obviously.”

“They sent dogs after me, Nightingale.”

“But you like dogs.”

“Correction. I like _my_ dog. I very much _dislike_ German attack Rottweilers.”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to.”

“You know, I have to admit, when I walked in and saw you here, I half-expected to find a knife sticking out of Cauthrien’s chest.”

One perfectly trimmed and shaped red eyebrow rose higher than its twin. “Perish the thought, Warden. What do you think I am, FSB? As if I would ever be as sloppy as those brutes.”

Valeria shrugged. “Fair enough. Well, all right, then. If you wouldn’t mind standing aside while I drag our friend here to the roof-”

“You might find that a little difficult.”

An irritated little scowl crossed the Englishwoman’s features. “And why is that, exactly?”

“The door to the roof is locked-”

“Since when has a mere _lock_ ever been an issue-”

“- and guarded.”

“Oh.”

“And there’s a squad patrolling the roof itself.”

“I see.”

“And they have aerial drone reconnaissance support.”

“Yes. Yes, I get it.”

“Loghain may be a man of many faults, but he clearly does not believe in taking chances.”

Indeed he didn’t. Loghain Mac Tir was a rather well known name in the espionage community. In fact, he was more than that. He was a boogeyman: intelligence operatives gathered around campfires and told scary stories about him to frighten snot-nosed recruits. His reputation bordered on the mythic, but it was very well-deserved. The man was, like every other spy (the successful ones, anyway,) a professional paranoiac. The difference was he seemed to just be plain better at it than just about anyone else. That paranoia of his had let him escape numerous ambushes that should have resulted in his death, or at least his capture.

Most spies would have retired after a long and storied career filled with that kind of stuff. Or, at the very least, recruited younger – and dumber – people to do the legwork for him. Really, it was strange to find someone his age still running operations, still going into the field, but Loghain had always been the “hands-on” sort. More pointedly, his organization was small. He kept it that way intentionally, limiting membership to only a handful of trusted associates. But that also meant he had to do a lot of the work himself.

And yet so far, the strategy was working. Getting an agent into his confidence was next to impossible. Loghain had an almost uncanny ability to sniff out others of his ilk.

There was, however, one very significant downside to the way Loghain ran his network. He’d put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak. Put an almost crippling amount of weight on a very small number of shoulders. And if someone were to take one of those key lieutenants out of play – someone like, say, two ambitious intelligence agents from a pair of decadent Western nations?

Well, that was why they were here, wasn’t it?

Yes, that _was_ why they were here. Trying to figure out a way to kidnap an unconscious woman out of a ladies’ restroom when the whole place was swarming with mean Russian guards.

“All right, Nightingale, so why don’t you go ahead and tell me what _your_ brilliant plan is for renditioning a suspected terrorist out from under the noses of her ill-tempered Russian babysitters?”

“Simple. We just have to not get caught.”

Valeria rolled her eyes. “Oh, of course. How silly of me. It’s so obvious.”

The redhead smirked. “We’ll have to do this quietly, Warden. I know that’s not really your style.”

“I’m willing to go along with just about anything that doesn’t get me shot.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or left in a ditch.”

Nightingale laughed, her chuckle a little musical tinkle. “No promises.”


	3. Chapter 3

They were highly trained, highly skilled, highly competent.

And none of it made a damn bit of difference.

That was the intelligence business in a nutshell: you did recon. You did research. You analyzed everything about everything. You learned to predict your opponents’ moves – to know what they were going to do before they did.

And sometimes, it all went to hell, anyway. Some days, you just got unlucky.

Nightingale had scouted ahead. Poked her head out of the restroom, and saw that the coast was clear. She’d then run back to Valeria to help her lug their unconscious prisoner out into the corridor. The French agent had gone on to suggest that they bring Cauthrien down to the ground floor and sneak her out past the kitchen through one of the service entrances. There, Valeria’s support team could pick them up and they could drive cleanly away. No one would be any the wiser.

It wasn’t a half bad idea.

Which, of course, was why it failed in spectacular fashion.

Now, in all fairness, there was no way they could have known that a random, two-man patrol would choose to utilize _this_ particular rarely-used staircase. But there they were. Armed, alert, and now, very, very angry.

It was at this point that things got… messy.

Now, Valeria had never been the girly sort. Even her wardrobe for the evening had been chosen by her support team. She knew that everything she was wearing was some kind of “label.” Designer-this, designer-that. But it was the sort of thing she’d never cared to pay attention to.

So she was rather caught off guard when Nightingale nearly slapped her in the face after she’d just finished jamming her stiletto heel into a man’s eye.

“What are you doing?!”

“What are _you_ doing?! Those are Jimmy Choo!”

“Jimmy-who?”

“Warden, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you are an uncultured swine.”

“Says the woman who puts the milk into the mug _before_ she pours in the tea.”

Nightingale had dispatched her own attacker in a less… obvious fashion. She’d eased the body down to the ground, and in this light, from this angle, one could almost fail to see that the man’s neck was broken. But that was beside the point. She shook her head in complete bafflement at Valeria’s response. “You English and your tea.”

At any rate, the shoe was ruined. Not only was it covered in blood and… other… unsavory substances, but she’d somehow managed to nearly snap the heel off as well. It clung doggedly to the sole of the shoe by a wafer-thin strip of material. Valeria sighed and threw the damned thing away, then kicked off her non-damaged shoe as well.

Nightingale grimaced, eyeing Valeria’s now bare feet with a look that seemed to blend sadness with disgust. Her brow furrowed, and the tip of her tongue poked out. But then, suddenly, her glare softened. Her eyes were still fixed on the Englishwoman’s legs, but now there was something almost… appreciative… in her expression. Certainly, her gaze was lingering perhaps just a bit longer than was necessary.

Or tactful.

“Nightingale.”

The Frenchwoman tore her stare away from those long, toned legs. On the sleek muscles of her calves, and the smoothness and suppleness of her thighs, of the-

...

Merde.

She sighed and clucked her tongue. “Such a waste.”

“Would you rather have me trying to fight my way out of a building swarming with guards on high alert while wearing just one heel?”

“I grasp the practicalities just fine, Warden, but it’s still a shame.”

Valeria smirked faintly. “If we get out of here alive, I’ll let you take me shoe shopping.”

Nightingale brightened considerably, those pretty blue eyes of hers flashing with delight. “Really?”


	4. Chapter 4

Tempting fate. That’d been their true mistake.

Making plans for what they’d do after they successfully extricated themselves from this ridiculous situation – that was hubris of the highest order, and at the rate things were going, it was likely to be their ultimate downfall as well.

Yes, things had started well enough. As well as anything of this sort could be, at least. But there was a far cry between the kind of quick and dirty skirmish that this had turned out to be, and what was almost certain to come in their immediate future. Two covert operatives against two trained infantrymen was, under most circumstances, pretty much an even fight. Those same covert operatives against an entire building full of armed guards… that was very much not an even fight.

And those guards would be on alert. Even more so than they had been.

One of the incapacitated guards’ radios had started crackling almost immediately after the fight had ended. They hadn’t managed to get a warning message off to the rest of their comrades, but it mattered little. Over the radio, the two spies could hear the guards’ commander ordering them to check in.

And this was not like in the movies, where a clever and plucky agent could simply pick up the radio and bluff their way to freedom. Valeria knew she would never be able to convince a naturally suspicious guard commander that she was one of their number.

Which meant that in just a mere handful of seconds, the two of them would be getting very, _very_ busy.

“Do you want to carry her, or shall I?” Somehow, Nightingale didn’t seem the least bit fazed about any of this, and Valeria wasn’t sure whether that was a “spy thing” or just Nightingale’s natural cheery disposition. Or maybe she just didn’t want to show any weakness in front of her colleague. It didn’t really matter. It was starting to wear on her nerves a little.

“I suppose I should,” Valeria grumbled as she bent down to haul Cauthrien up onto her shoulder. Damn, the woman was a lot heavier than she looked. But then again, she did work for a living. She was more muscle than most people tended to give her credit for.

Nightingale gave a terse nod of her head. “Makes sense. You...” She pursed her lips together momentarily. “Do have more of the right build for that sort of thing.” She turned her head to check over her shoulder and make sure no one was sneaking up on them, but just before she did, Valeria could have sworn she’d seen the other woman wink at her.

Now what was _that_ about?

True, nobody would ever mistake Valeria Cousland for a runway supermodel. She was far too… bulky for that, with relatively broad shoulders, sculpted calves, thighs that could probably crack open a walnut if she squeezed them together hard enough, and a chiseled abdomen. But it wasn’t like she didn’t still look feminine. What was Nightingale getting at, anyway?

… and perhaps, more importantly, why did she suddenly give a damn about what the Frenchwoman even thought about her appearance?

“Warden, I suppose this is a silly question, but… you _are_ armed, aren’t you?”

The question was enough to pull Valeria’s brain out of the circles it had been driving itself in, and her eyes narrowed at the potential implications of what she’d just been asked. “You’re not going to scamper off with my weapon this time.”

Nightingale laughed brightly. “I just want to borrow it.”

“That’s what you said the last time.”

“And like the last time, you won’t exactly be able to operate it while carrying _that_ over your shoulder.” She nodded at the unconscious woman draped over Valeria’s shoulder like a particularly lumpy and misshapen towel.

“Where’s _your_ gun?”

The French agent was still carrying her little clutch. Those slim, almost delicate-looking fingers reached into it and retrieved a compact Sig Sauer. “Here.”

“Then you don’t need mine.”

Nightingale snickered quietly. “Suit yourself. Should we go?”


	5. Chapter 5

Nightingale had been right: the roof had been guarded.

Emphasis on the “had,” though, as the four-man team assigned to patrol said roof was… well, they were dead.

As much as Valeria loathed to admit it – especially now – Nightingale was a pretty decent shot. Valeria considered herself better, but in all fairness, she considered herself a better shot than just about any other human being she’d met to date. And that self-assessment wasn’t even entirely bluster. Maybe not even mostly bluster.

Still, she regretted the need for all the shooting. Not out of any particular love for the guards who’d just tried to murder her, and not even out of any particular feelings of peace and goodwill towards her fellow man. No, it was something more… pragmatic than that. Shootouts tended to be messy affairs. All the noise and the blood – the professional in her always felt that resorting to gunfire meant she hadn’t done her job properly in the first place. Not to mention that firing a gun – even if for good reason – very often tended to accomplish little more than drawing the attention of more people with guns. And she wanted to avoid that. Really, she could’ve probably done without the whole “being chased by armed men across a rooftop” business. Just skip all of that entirely.

But “if wishes were horses” and all that.

She rolled her eyes. _“If wishes were horses,”_ What the hell was that even supposed to mean, anyway? Apparently it’d been the Scots who’d come up with that particular turn of phrase. Which, of course, explained perfectly why it didn’t make a damned bit of sense.

“So, do we have a plan for getting out of here?”

“You were the one who said this would be simple. ‘Just don’t get caught.’”

“Yes, well, it seems we’ve moved beyond that point.”

The Englishwoman snorted disdainfully. Her French colleague wasn’t wrong, but this was the exact reason why she preferred to have a plan in place before things started getting… heated. Improvising was always so… clumsy.

“Fine. I do have a plan, actually.”

“Truly?”

“Let’s not die.”

“Ah. Well, I always incorporate that into my plans, so I didn’t feel it was really worth discussing.”

“And I, au contraire, think it’s important enough a concern to bear repeating. Many times.”

Nightingale gave a brief nod in acknowledgment of the point. “Fair enough. But indulge me for a moment. You wouldn’t happen to have a plan for the specific purpose of getting us off this roof, would you?”

“I’m working on it.”

“I see. Well, I really don’t mean to be a bother, but could you perhaps work a little faster? These four guards I just killed-”

“ _You_ killed?”

“I don’t recall you shooting any of them. You did a wonderful job of _scaring_ them, I’ll grant you that, firing your little Walther over their heads and such.”

Valeria’s nostrils flared. She glared angrily at the other woman. “I hit one!”

“In the arm. Totally non-lethal wound.”

“Oh, whatever.”

“As I was saying, there _will_ be more guards coming. And soon.”

“Yes, thank you. I _am_ aware.” Valeria scanned the rooftop, and much to her chagrin, nothing immediately of interest jumped out at her. She hadn’t really been expecting anything different, but it would have been nice. She sighed. “I don’t suppose you have any rope, do you?”

Nightingale rolled her eyes and then waved a hand down herself and the snug-fitting dress that covered her. Barely. And then, when that failed to thoroughly make her point, she dangled her little handbag in front of her. “Do you know, I don’t? I just couldn’t think of a place to put it.”

But Valeria was no longer listening. There was a decently-sized satellite dish on the roof with them, standing atop a small, waist-high column of unpainted brick, and Valeria had busied herself tugging at a handful of metal brackets that had been rather sloppily bolted to it. “This might be long enough,” she mused.”

“Long enough for wh-” But then the Frenchwoman caught on. Whoever had installed the dish hadn’t bothered to trim the excess cabling or even store it away properly, and so coils of it just sat there in the open. It wasn’t the sturdiest looking stuff, but it might just support the weight of a human being. “Might,” being the operative word.

But whether it “might” or “might not” support a person’s weight, they were desperate enough to try.

There was, however, one additional problem: they’d have to go one by one.

And how could they do that, when one of their number was currently lying helpless on the ground, drooling all over herself?

“One of us will have to lower her-” the redhead began.

Valeria rolled her eyes. “I know. And those spindly arms of yours would snap in half trying to do that job.” She sighed. “It’ll have to be me.”

“My arms are not ‘spindly.’”

“Oh, so you’d prefer the job of lowering our friend to the ground without killing her? While those guards you were talking about earlier are shooting at you?”

“I see your point.”

The Englishwoman rolled her eyes again and set about creating a makeshift harness. It wasn’t the cleanest rope work she’d ever done, but the knots were secure. She was sure they would hold. “I don’t suppose you’d mind covering me while I do this?”

“You sure you don’t want to lend me your gun?”

She groaned softly and with obvious reluctance, handed over her pistol and spare ammunition. “I’m never getting that back, am I?”

“Are you calling me a thief?”

“You’re a spy. Thievery comes with the territory.”


	6. Chapter 6

“They’re very determined, aren’t they?”

Valeria had never understood just what it was about Nightingale that compelled her to talk constantly. They’d crossed paths a handful of times over the years, and every time they did, no matter the situation, no matter how dire the circumstances, the French agent had always been… chatty.

This time was no different, and the circumstances were about as dire as they ever got. Valeria had never enjoyed feeling helpless, nor had she ever enjoyed having her fate in someone else’s hands, and that was pretty much the case here. Lowering an unconscious woman down several stories from the roof of a building, utilizing a very sloppy, makeshift harness while being shot at by angry guards, would have been bad enough on its own. But worse than that, her only defense was a DGSE agent with a terrible inability to keep from letting her smart mouth run amok.

The truth was that she trusted Nightingale. But only in the sense that any intelligence agent could trust an operative working for another government. The phrase “as far as I can throw her” came to mind. Yes, their countries were technically allies. Yes, the British and French intelligence apparatus shared information. But spies were… spies. By their very nature, intelligence operatives did not trust easily. Those that did, died quickly. Nevertheless, as loathe as she was to admit it to herself, she did, indeed, trust the Frenchwoman. At least enough that she felt reasonably confident she wasn’t about to be shot in the back by her supposed ally. And in the spy world, that level of trust was golden.

None of this made her feel all that much better, though, as her arms and back protested from the strain of keeping Cauthrien from plummeting to her death. And her heart pounded in her ears both from the physical exertion and the fact that those gunshots were now starting to get awful close.

To her credit, Nightingale was doing a rather brilliant job of forcing the enemy to keep their heads down, but brilliant or not, there was only so much one could expect from a woman armed with a pair of light caliber handguns and extremely limited ammunition, when thrown up against several cranky guards armed with assault rifles.

“You wouldn’t happen to be getting close to finished, would you?” the French agent snarled as a burst of gunfire stitched across the wall she was hiding behind. The bullets impacted at head level. Damned Russians and their distressingly good aim.

There was a sudden, loud *THUD* from down below, and the makeshift rope suddenly went slack. Valeria’s eyes widened in horror. She hadn’t-

Deep down, the part of her brain still concerned about such trivial things as her own survival, screamed at her for standing up in the middle of a raging firefight. But she was too busy rushing to the edge of the roof to peer over the edge to worry about her smarter half chastising her for being an imbecile. She leaned just far enough out to see down to the alley below.

“Templar, your timing is impeccable.”

“Were you planning on joining us any time soon, Warden? You can bring your friend.” Templar’s voice was sardonic, maybe even a little taunting. But it was also music to her ears. And the sight of Cauthrien lying sprawled in relatively safety in the bed of the pickup truck he was driving, was even more welcome.

“It would be only fair for us to just leave her here, after all the trouble she’s caused.” But she knew, even as she muttered the words under her breath that she was about to do no such thing. Instead, she called out as loud as she could, hoping to be heard over the din of the still raging gunfire. “Oi! Hurry up, we’re leaving!”

The redhead turned towards her, lips quirking into a confused, little pout. But Valeria didn’t bother wasting time with explanations. She seized the Frenchwoman by the hand, wrapped an arm snugly around her waist…

And then flung the both of them off the roof.


	7. Chapter 7

Nightingale did not scream. Whether that was because she was shocked to the point of speechlessness- something Valeria didn’t believe was even physically possible, or because she simply had nerves of steel, it didn’t really matter. Still, if she had to hazard a guess, it was actually probably the latter, and she found that… well, she found it quite impressive indeed.

The force of the two of them swinging off the thin cable nearly tore Valeria’s grip loose. But she held on with everything she had, and she prayed that the line would stay anchored where she’d left it. But either way, she wasn’t planning on hanging where she was long enough to find out.

Her arms felt like lead. If lead could scream in agony, at least. She’d clearly torn or at least very, very strongly pulled something in her arms and shoulders loose, and it was only a matter of time before her overtaxed body failed entirely and sent them both plummeting down the side of the building.

The good news was that the Frenchwoman – again showing remarkable aplomb – had recovered swiftly after her initial surprise and grabbed hold of the cable herself with both hands. That took much of their combined weight off Valeria’s shoulders (literally,) and allowed the Frenchwoman to actually do something besides hang there like some kind of odd and useless growth. Then, with agonizing slowness, Nightingale began lowering the two of them down their improvised rope.

Valeria assisted their descent in every way she could, but the truth of the matter was that she’d suddenly become rather distracted. Aside from the excruciating pain tearing through her upper body (which, admittedly, she could largely force herself to ignore thanks to vigorous training,) she couldn’t help but notice things about the woman she was pressed up tightly against. It seemed rather silly. It wasn’t like she didn’t know what Nightingale looked like. They’d encountered each other in the field more than enough times. In her line of work, by now, it was expected that she have a complete grasp of her counterpart’s skills, abilities, and intentions. But this was different. She was being inundated with information she would never before have considered… pertinent.

The feel of the other woman’s dress – the smoothness of the fabric, the luxuriousness of it. Or of Nightingale breathing heavily next to her, chest pressed tight against her side, and heaving with growing exhaustion. The redhead was a “slight” woman, but this situation was clearly proving that slender or not, she was also surprisingly strong. Muscles bunched and bulged. Her arms may have been on the slender side – even a bit sinewy – but they didn’t quiver, didn’t show any signs of weakening under the immense strain she must have been feeling trying to keep the two of them from plunging to their deaths. And it was the same with her legs. Slim… but powerful. Nightingale kicked off from the wall, rappelling the both of them down a few feet at a time, with all the grace and poise of an expert climber. And whenever she did, Valeria caught a glimpse of creamy-smooth thigh peeking out from underneath the other woman’s dress. Or a hint of exquisitely defined calf.

Valeria said nothing. This was _hardly_ the time or place to be entertaining such thoughts. And yet, try as she might, she just found it so hard to help herself. Thankfully, there was a reprieve on the horizon, and it was getting closer by the second. She risked a look down and saw that the metal bed of Templar’s pickup truck was only a short drop beneath her. She gave the redhead a quick tap on the shoulder and then nodded downwards, then let go of the makeshift rope.

She landed hard in the bed of the pickup, the force of the impact driving her to one knee, but she kept her footing. Mostly. And she still had the presence of mind to look back up as her redheaded counterpart came crashing down almost right on top of her.

There was grunting. Groaning. Copious amounts of swearing as limbs were sorted out, and at one point Valeria had to reach out to keep Nightingale from flat out falling out the side of the truck. She slapped her hand against bare metal several times.

Templar got the truck rolling immediately, and with a near-deafening roar and the rattle of a badly maintained engine, took the vehicle from a complete standstill to a breakneck pace down narrow streets that was likely to get them killed in a horrific collision. Valeria found his impression of a spooked horse taking off in a blind panic to be spot-on. But they were lucky, and at this time of evening, traffic was light. Light enough to not really slow them down, and just heavy enough that they could blend in easily.

A few minutes of driving later, it looked like they were clear of pursuit. If there’d been any in the first place. Valeria hadn’t really expected some kind of chase through the streets, but part of the job was planning for everything. Absolutely everything. But no, the coast looked to be clear, and both women let out shaky breaths, trying to keep from trembling too much as the rush of adrenaline began to wane for both of them.

It was at this point that Cauthrien, still slumped in one corner of the pickup’s cargo bed, let out a groggy moan.

And was promptly silenced by a closed fist to her right temple.

Nightingale shrugged. “She had that coming.”

Valeria shrugged back. She wasn’t in any way inclined to disagree.


	8. Chapter 8

_Cafe Rialto_  
_Rome_  
_0007 Hours_

The Cafe Rialto was a charming and rustic little place, buried deep in the heart of Rome. One of those places that few of the tourists knew about, because it was guarded so jealously by the locals. And yet, even so, the little restaurant by the river was packed to the gills every evening, with people having to make reservations weeks – sometimes even months – in advance.

Warden and Nightingale, however, had no need of such frivolities. Not when the restaurant was a front for the DGSE.

The spy trade had its privileges.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the restaurant and its clientele weren’t ready to call it a night yet, and so there was still a great deal of bustle going on. Drinks were being poured. Food orders were being delivered. And if one listened closely enough, the ranting and swearing that was a natural part of every terribly busy restaurant kitchen could be heard even through the noise of a happily chattering crowd. And yet, like the relative calm in the eye of a storm, the two intelligence operatives seemed to be unaffected by the chaos swirling all around them. They were in their own little world where none of the… inconveniences of their normal day to day lives could possibly trouble them.

They munched on antipasti. They sipped some exquisite white wine, and as they did, Valeria had to admit that the cafe’s storied reputation was indeed well-deserved. But then again, what else was one to expect from a restaurant run by Frenchmen posing as Italians? By contrast, she shuddered at what things might have been like if MI-6 had been running the show here, instead.

*Oi, would you like some chipped beef and a pint of warm lager?*

Shocking. Absolutely shocking.

“Everything on this menu looks so good.” Nightingale’s silky smooth voice interrupted Valeria’s musings. The Englishwoman looked up from her menu, only to find that despite what she’d just said, her counterpart wasn’t actually looking at hers. Instead, she had leaned forward a little, holding her delicate-stemmed wineglass in front of her face in such a way that she could coyly stare at Valeria over the rim of it. “And yet, I’m almost thinking we should just skip to dessert.”

Valeria had known Nightingale for some time. They might not have been “friends,” exactly, but they had always been on friendly terms, at least. And that was rare for people in their line of work. She knew the French agent could be almost appallingly bold at times, but this was… new. It was impossible to miss the sudden edge in Nightingale’s voice. Impossible to overlook the flirtatiousness and all the promises of mischief that lay in those honeyed words.

For her part, Valeria’s response was audacious enough that she surprised even herself. “The restroom here is far too small for a dessert service.”

For a brief, extremely fleeting moment, Nightingale’s eyes went wide. Had Warden really just said what she’d thought she said? My, how… forward. Her eyes narrowed again, taking on a pretty little twinkle, even as the corners of her mouth turned up in an amused smile.

She laughed. And not even one of those husky, sultry little laughs that she was so fond of using on ignorant marks, but a genuine, hearty, honest-to-goodness laugh from the very bottom of her heart. In her experience, Warden was an extremely beautiful woman. Impossibly smart. Dangerously competent. But this particular brand of daring had never really been much her style.

It was nice to see the change.

“I wasn’t thinking of anything quite that uncouth, I assure you, Warden.” She cocked her head and grinned. “Though now that you mention it, the idea does have some merit.”

“It would be a logistical nightmare, Nightingale. Not to mention the potential for scandal and embarrassment should we get caught.”

“That’s what makes it fun. And please. Us? Caught? Avoiding detection would require but a fraction of our skills at underhandedness and deceit.”

Valeria chuckled and shook her head. This outrageous back and forth she had going with the French intelligence agent was really starting to get out of hand. Their relationship had always been based on “friendly” competition and constant one upsmanship. From the day they’d met, their conversations had always involved trading barbs like this. But there was a difference. There was always an air of professionalism about it. A detachment. A tacit agreement between the two of them that whatever else they may have become during their… adventures, they were comrades and colleagues first and foremost.

This, though… this was getting… personal. Very personal.

No doubt about it, these were dangerous waters.

And yet, Valeria was tempted. Of course she was tempted. She had, after all, agreed they should have a celebratory dinner together. She never would have acquiesced to that if she hadn’t been tempted by the idea of… something further developing. She took a breath. Steeled herself. Worked up the nerve to ask the question she was fairly certain she already knew the answer to.

“So if not a… quick sampling in the Ladies’ Room, what _did_ you have in mind?”

“My agency has a safehouse nearby. Luxuriously appointed. The beds are extremely comfortable.”

“ ‘Beds,’ plural? So you’re inviting me for a sleep-over, then? Do you picture us drinking cocoa? Watching scary movies? Playing Truth or Dare, and after all that, retiring to separate bedrooms? How… charming.”

“Oh, come now, Warden, you know that’s not what I meant. I was more thinking that we could just choose one. Or even, if you were feeling sprightly, sample the lot. That sounds like it could prove interesting.”

If that proposition had been delivered any other way, Valeria probably would’ve balked at the notion. But Nightingale’s proposal had been so over the top – complete with goofy smile and waggling eyebrows that the Englishwoman couldn’t help but find the whole thing comical. But that was what was so charming about it. It was right then that she suddenly realized just how much she enjoyed Nightingale’s teasing. It was easy and comfortable and even reassuring how the Frenchwoman seemed to be so carefree and not at all ashamed of asking – directly – for what she wanted.

Valeria groaned inwardly. She knew that she was being played. That was simply how the other woman always did things. And yet, here she was, armed with that knowledge and outright ignoring it because the prize on offer was just so bloody tempting.

Hells, this was going to be _such_ a palaver.

“Well, as tempting as your offer is, I’m _hungry._ So we’re not skipping straight to dessert.” _As… delicious as that might end up being,_ she neglected to add.

Nightingale took Valeria’s response in stride, responding with a bright, warm smile. While she would never claim to be an authority on how the Frenchwoman operated, she was at least reasonably certain that she could tell the difference between her “work” smiles – the kind that were pure artifice intended to deceive a mark, and her real ones. This one seemed to light up her whole face, and that was very, very hard to fake. “Then may I recommend the lamb?” the redhead said with that same smile. “You can’t go wrong with lamb.”

She nodded. The description on the menu did indeed make it sound extremely tasty. “Lamb it is, then. And after...”

A chuckle. “And after, ‘dessert.’ I like this plan.”

“Yeah. So do I.” She was very much looking forward to it, Valeria had to admit to herself.

They clinked glasses.


End file.
